Fytte III. The Rivals. 



"Nothing like soup," is still the cry 

 In each well ordered family; 

 So on Christine the duty fell 

 To cull the herbs they Ioyo so well; 

 And every morn, the charming maid 

 Within her father's garden strayed, 

 Parsley to pluck, wherewith to make 

 The soup, which they at noon should take. 



Her father's garden marched, I ween, 

 With that of Mr. Richard Dean; 

 A school-master by trade was he, 

 And she esteemed him — maidenly. 

 But by degrees, within her soul 

 A softer, tenderer passion stole; 

 Love — full of joy and full of sorrow. 

 Sunshine to day, and storm to-morrow. 

 Love may forget a parsley bed, 

 And dream of golden flowers instead. 



